


Ysraneth's Tale

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Character Death, Crack Treated Seriously, Drunk Sex, Drunken Shenanigans, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Ethical Dilemmas, F/F, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied Femslash, Imprisonment, Mildly Dubious Consent, War Crimes, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Ysraneth is the child of a Bosmer and a Nord. More of a huntress than a warrior, it's a good thing she's got her beloved Lydia to back her up as she wanders Skyrim in search of dragons and the best way to kill and eat an Altmer.Mostly fluff and humour with implied femslash, cannibalism and dubious consent (Sanguine gets a bunch of people drunk at a wedding and everyone hooks up with everyone else). Please read the tags as I'm copy/pasting a series of short stories I wrote six or seven years ago since there's been a couple requests for them and don't particularly feel like repeating the trigger warnings for each chapter.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Lydia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	1. Waste Not, Want Not

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I have way too many head-canons and an obsession with writing about mixed-race protagonists (I like exploring cultural juxtapositions and alienation).

_You should never leave meat to waste, little one. That is an offence against Yff’re and the Green Pact.”_

_“But Father, it was a person!”_

_“He was a bandit, little one. And now his soul has gone to Sovngarde. Now thank the gods for your meal and help me lay out the meat for drying.”_

It was a strange thing to recall while standing next to the bleached bones of a dragon, but Ysraneth supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. She was as much a child of Valenwood as she was of Skyrim, more comfortable in the lush temperate forests of Falkreath than the open plains of Whiterun, and it seemed that the gods had chosen her to be the hunter of dragons. The flames that preceded the absorption of the dragon’s soul had left very little flesh; a pity, because these guardsmen and the Dunmer Irileth had done their fair share in slaughtering the beast and deserved a portion of it. Perhaps some of the bones and scales would be salvageable…

“That was the hairiest fight I’ve been in – and I’ve been in more than a few,” Irileth noted as she approached the skeleton. “I’ll take charge here. Go and let the Jarl know what happened.”

“In a moment,” the hunter told the huscarl as she squatted by the bones, drawing a steel dagger scavenged from a dead bandit. “There’s stuff that can be salvaged from Mirmulnir. You and your men deserve it.”

The blood-eyed dark elf raised a coppery eyebrow. “You follow the Green Pact?” she asked, rich voice a touch incredulous.

“As much as I can,” Ysraneth responded. “I stopped eating people when Father died. But I do make use of everything I take from my human kills and freely consume all animal flesh.”

She sawed at the cartilage that kept the bones together until it parted, breaking open the ribcage. “These would make good tent supports. Damn shame there’s only a few scales left. You could have made a fine tent.”

Irileth gave a startled laugh. “Only a Bosmer’s daughter could look at a dragon and see a tent,” she observed amusedly.

The other guardsmen gathered around the duo, murmuring to themselves about the Dragonborn and the portents she presented. Ysraneth wasn’t really offended; her height and relative bulkiness betrayed her dominant Nord heritage even if her milk-coffee skin, straight dun-hued hair and long teardrop face with slanted forest-green eyes were obviously Bosmer. Perhaps it was arrogance to think thusly, but a daughter of Skyrim who would say prayers for the dragons she slew and let nothing of them go to waste might be the best choice for Dragonborn. Most of the other races would leave the skeleton to rot but for a skull to stick on a post somewhere.

“I am a Nord, for what it’s worth,” Ysraneth told Irileth as she set aside a curved rib. “But I was raised by my father after the Great War.”

“You support the Stormcloaks then?” Irileth asked, blood-red eyes narrowed in assessment of a potential threat. She was devoted to the Jarl that went beyond typical behaviour for a huscarl; Ysraneth would not be surprised if the pair loved each other. Given that she was mixed-race herself, she would cast no stones in their direction.

“Hardly. I was in Helgen, trading pelts for winter food supplies, when Ulfric came in.” The half-elf continued with her butchering as the men fell silent to listen. “I’m not fond of the Thalmor. No sane person is, especially with what they did in Valenwood, but the Empire is the best chance to fight them.”

“’What they did in Valenwood’?” one of the guards tentatively asked.

Ysraneth sighed, pausing in her work. “The Thalmor are obsessed with purity,” she answered. “My father’s family was… purged… because of inferior bloodlines. He survived and escaped Valenwood to join the Legion. My mother was a huntress in Falkreath who joined up to fight for Talos. She died two years after the Great War in a Thalmor purge of Talos worshippers and my father was honourably discharged from the Legion to raise me.”

“I see,” Irileth observed noncommittally as the guardsman made sympathetic noises. “Once word gets out about you, Ysraneth-“

The huntress grinned savagely. “It is an offence to Yff’re to waste meat. And as I’m human and they’re not, it wouldn’t be cannibalism now, would it?”

Irileth gave another startled laugh as the guardsmen boggled at the pair of them. “You should be a lawyer,” the Dunmer noted dryly.

“Perish the thought! I’ve got _some_ morals!”

“Wait, how is being a cannibal moralistic?” the same brave guardsman asked dubiously.

“I’m _not_ a cannibal. I don’t eat humans or Bosmer,” Ysraneth corrected. “I don’t like Dunmer – no offence, Irileth, but your people taste a bit… ashy... and Orcs are filthy. Scales and fur stick to my teeth, so I only eat Argonians and Khajiit when I’m desperate, but Altmer? Clean, well-bred and very little fat. And since most Altmer who are outside Alinor tend to be Thalmor and/or trying to kill me… It would be immoral to waste the meat.”

“You know, that makes a certain amount of sense. I’m just not sure if it’s because I really need a drink or whether I hate the Thalmor just that much,” the guardsman mused thoughtfully.

Irileth was shaking her head bemusedly as Ysraneth finished butchering the dragon. “Keep the bones,” she told the huscarl. “Maybe Farengar will be able to do something or people will pay for bits of dragon and you can buy food for the widowed spouses of the men that thing ate.”

“Hmm, that is noble of you,” Irileth told her. “I’ll oversee the rest. I’m glad you’re on our side, Dragonborn.”

“That makes several of us,” the brave guardsman muttered. Ysraneth flashed him a grin before picking up her bow, salvaging some precious steel arrows, and rising to her feet with a long easy stretch.

She didn’t expect the pureblood Nords to understand her worldview. Her father had raised her in the Green Pact, and as best she could she followed it, but the remnants of her mother’s Nordic ways lingered. She’d never been comfortable with cannibalism. But since she wasn’t the same race as the Altmer, it wasn’t cannibalism.

The gods had chosen her to be Dragonborn. That gave her beliefs some kind of validity. Though if old tales of having a dragon’s soul were true, consuming the souls of other dragons could be problematic.

She was halfway to Whiterun when the sky thundered with her name. And when she reached the Jarl’s palace and he told her who was summoning her, Ysraneth sighed with relief. The Greybeards taught the Dragonborn how to deal with their Thu’um, so obviously they could tell her whether it was cannibalism or not.

She stood on the porch and looked up at High Hrothgar after the Jarl had thrown a feast for her and those who fought the dragon. Now a Thane with her very own huscarl, a dark-haired woman named Lydia, she’d need to get to the monastery soon since Alduin himself might have returned. Hopefully Lydia, who’d been briefed by Irileth, wouldn’t be too… uneasy.

“Don’t worry,” she assured the huscarl. “I won’t make you eat Altmer. You don’t follow the Green Pact.”

“My Thane, you’re too kind,” the pureblood answered, tone sarcastically relieved. Then she apologised for her disrespectful tone and Ysraneth had laughed.

“I prefer honesty. Besides, you’re not part-Bosmer, so I wouldn’t hold you to the same standards.” She looked up at High Hrothgar again. “I just hope the Greybeards tell me eating dragon souls isn’t cannibalism. If it is, we’re in trouble.”

Lydia burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Travelling with you is going to be interesting,” she observed wryly.

She really had a lovely laugh. Ysraneth smiled at her, wondering just where her interests lay. “Not _too_ interesting, I hope. I’d like to reach High Hrothgar alive.”

“We’ll be fine,” Lydia assured her.

Ysraneth stepped forward and kissed her, touched by her ready loyalty so soon after meeting her. Lydia’s eyes widened but she returned the kiss enthusiastically.

“I apologise for being so forward,” the huntress whispered into the woman’s dark hair, “but we’re alone and my father had a saying.”

“What’s that?”

“’Waste not, want not’.”

Lydia’s husky chuckle warmed more than her heart. “A wise man, your father.”

Ysraneth looked to the stars as the huscarl’s mouth moved to her neck. Nords were quick to passion and it would seem Lydia wasn’t going to be too judgmental.

_Thank you, Shor and Yff’re, for the meal,_ she thought silently. _I won’t let anything go to waste._


	2. The Ethics of Eating a Dragon's Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ysraneth, the half-Bosmer Nord Dragonborn, has a serious question about the morality of eating dragons when she has the soul of one. So she asks Arngeir.

Arngeir, Master of the Greybeards, had tried not to anticipate what the Dragonborn would be like when he and his brethren issued the call to High Hrothgar. But the Dovahkiinne were traditionally Nord, so he at least expected a brawny, boisterous soul to match the thundering of her Voice. Likely clad in furs and armour with an iron or steel weapon, eyes flashing like lightning, skin pale as the snow.

When Lydia entered the doors, he’d stepped forward to greet her as Dragonborn, though he wondered at her companion. At first glance, he’d assumed she was Bosmer with the milk-coffee skin, long teardrop face and large green eyes, clad in fine leather armour with a magnificent bow across her back. Judging by their behaviour, the two were lovers, though man and mer relationships were… frowned upon… by the Nords.

Then she came up to Lydia and was of a similar height; her frame was nearly as bulky as the Nord woman’s, but more in the shoulders as befits an archer, and he noted queasily that her quiver was made from tanned yellow leather that came from no animal. She was Nord… but followed the Green Pact of Yff’re.

“All clear, Thane,” Lydia called out, nodding respectfully to Arngeir.

“Already inside,” the woman answered… and the Master of the Greybeards heard the touch of thunder in her Voice.

“Dragonborn…?” he asked, half of the gods and half of the women before him.

“So Balgruuf tells me.” The mix-blood bowed respectfully. “I’m Ysraneth. I’m honoured to meet you, sir.”

“I am Master Arngeir.” He bowed in return, relieved she at least seemed to be amenable to the path of wisdom. “I am honoured to meet you, Dragonborn.”

The formalities were concluded in short order, Master Borri’s face disappointed when it was proved that yes, the Nord cannibal was the Dragonborn. Arngeir was impressed with her easy mastery of Dovahzul, though he feared she might get a bit too eager.

Once the lessoning was done and the other Masters returned to their meditations, Arngeir drew the Dragonborn – Ysraneth, her very name combining both her heritages – aside and offered her a seat. “You seem troubled, Dovahkiin. How might I help you?”

“Well, I’ve been bothered since I killed Mirmulnir and… well, ate his soul.” Ysraneth had brought some arrows and feathers with her, fletching them as she talked. She was clearly competent and Arngeir noted that many of the heads were bone and horn. “It’s a shame they go up in fire; that big bastard could have fed the dead guards’ widows for weeks if they dried the meat properly and the scales would have made a nice tent.”

“You follow the Green Pact?” He needed to understand her morality and ethics so best to guide her. Eating the flesh of other sentient beings was immoral by Nord standards, but he suspected that Ysraneth would see it as a horrible waste of meat.

“Sort of. I don’t eat men or Bosmer; that’s cannibalism.” She smiled wryly at his surprised blink, clearly not offended by it. “Da was always on me about it. ‘The gods gave you a meal, girl. Don’t waste it’.”

Arngeir found himself chuckling. “I… see.”

“Fantastic! Most people are squicked out by this point. I understand, but you know, most people don’t appreciate the resources the land gives them.” Ysraneth shook her head disappointedly. “I tend to avoid Dunmer because they taste ashy, even when spit-roasted over a slow fire – don’t worry, they’re always dead! Orsimer never bathe enough and the beastfolk never skin properly, so I always get fur or scales stuck in my teeth.”

Of all the discussions Arngeir was having, discussing the ethics and tastes of cannibalism were nearly the last, literally just before a cordial chat with a Blade over the proper direction of the Dragonborn. But he could tell that Ysraneth was sincerely interested in the morality of being a person who could absorb the souls of dragons. It behoved him to give her questions due consideration.

“I notice you didn’t mention Altmer,” he ventured cautiously, looking pointedly at the golden-yellow quiver set up by her seat.

“Mama worshipped Talos and they killed her; Papa was nearly purged in Valenwood because he wasn’t ‘pure enough’ for them.” Her amiable tone had turned bitter with old hatred. “Besides, they keep themselves in good shape. Lean, tender, well-bred…”

“I… understand.” He was revolted, of course, but it was not his place to judge the Dragonborn. And after what the Thalmor had done to his beloved pupil Ulfric, he found it hard to disagree with her unorthodox attitude.

“Fantastic! I was expecting some sour look.” Ysraneth seemed genuinely grateful and reached out to squeeze his hand; her own was callused and strong.

“I, ah, take it you’re having difficulties with the ethics of eating dragons?” he asked carefully, oddly touched by her gesture.

Ysraneth nodded quickly. “I know my comment about feeding Mirmulnir to the guards’ widows might sound odd, but they’re not dragons. Balgruuf said I’ve got the soul of one and…”

“The Jarl of Whiterun is correct. You have the soul of a dragon but the body of a human.”

The mix-blood sighed. “It seems unethical to eat the souls of dragons. Like cannibalism.”

“…You follow the Green Pact.”

“I’m half-man, half-mer. I don’t eat any race of man or the Bosmer,” she corrected. “I’m not Altmer, so they’re fair game.”

Arngeir could understand now, dimly, what was troubling her. She’d likely been raised by two different belief systems and this was the only way she could reconcile both sides of her ancestry. To embrace her destiny as Dragonborn would mean spitting on that which made her Bosmer yet paradoxically force her to act in a manner repulsive to her Nord blood.

He went over what Paarthunax had taught the Greybeards about dragons. “As I understand it, dragons fight and devour each other all the time. You are doing no more or no less than any of your winged brethren… and believe me, Dragonborn, they will seek to devour you. Alduin in particular.”

Ysraneth sighed, looking unhappy. “That’s not an easy answer, Master Arngeir.”

“You have the power of a child of Akatosh, Dragonborn. Such gifts rarely bring easy answers.”

The mix-blood looked at Lydia, who was examining one of the ancient carvings. “Can dragons love?”

Arngeir followed her eyes. Lydia was a typical Nord woman; in her features he could see the lineage of Whiterun’s Jarls. Balgruuf had literally trusted her so much, had been so grateful for her intervention at Whiterun, that he’d given her a huscarl of his own flesh and blood. “It is your soul that makes you a dragon, but your heart and mind that make you mortal, Dragonborn. What do they tell you?”

“That it’s better someone like me, who will thank the gods for the meals they send me – even if they’re estranged family trying to eat me before I eat them – be Dragonborn instead of some pureblood Nord idiot who’ll mount a dragon’s skull on his wall to show he’s a mighty warrior,” she finally replied. “I didn’t want to be rude to Balgruuf, but I nearly asked him to take down Numinex’s skull and use it for something! Nothing wrong with keeping a trophy of a hunt, but you need to _use_ it, not stick it on a wall for decoration!”

“I understand.” Arngeir allowed himself a smile at the agitated mix-blood. “You are a huntress, Dragonborn. Kynareth, our patron goddess, oversees your kind too. She disdains the hunter who kills for sport or refuses to use prey for all it is worth. If I may be so bold, I am relieved that you are not someone like what I expected when I heard the power of your Shout at Whiterun.”

“You expected someone like Lydia.” There was no rancour in the statement. “She doesn’t always understand, but she tries. I don’t expect her to follow the Green Pact but she’s a decent hunter. Poor archer, but I’ll work on that.”

“You love her.”

“I think so.”

Arngeir sighed, leaning back in his seat. Nord blood or not, he was old enough to feel the cold. “Kynareth loved mortals so much She gave us the power of the Thu’um, Dragonborn.”

“Is that’s why it’s a sin to use it for your own glory?” Ysraneth asked, startling the Master.

“The Greybeards believe so, yes. It is only to be used for the worship of Kynareth.” He held up a hand. “As Dragonborn and a child of Akatosh, you are not bound by the same rules.”

“That why you guided Talos, huh, even though he was a marauding jackhole who betrayed his own king?”

Arngeir blinked. That was harsher than he expected. “I, ah, wasn’t Master then. But I suppose so.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t go conquering anything. Too much killing, too much waste.” Ysraneth shook her head in disgust. “The Nords want to kill the elves and the elves want to return the favour. If Ulfric had half a brain, he’d approach the Valenwood clans and some of the Khajiit.”

“Politics is not our sphere of influence,” he told her, feeling a pang of heartache at the memory of the bright-eyed, proud-Voiced youth he’d trained.

“Sorry, Master Arngeir. I forgot you trained Ulfric.” She sighed, rubbing the back of her head. Most of it had been shaved, only the top half permitted to grow and be gathered in a long ponytail.

“It is alright.” Arngeir sighed. “I am glad that you are willing to consider the ethics of your gift, Dragonborn. Many others… would not.”

“Yeah. If I heard one more bloody Companion talk about what he’d do with the Voice…” She sighed. “I’m going to kick Alduin’s arse, buy myself a parcel of land, marry Lydia if she’ll have me and adopt a couple kids.”

_Such a simple goal for a remarkable woman._ Perhaps it was fitting that the Last Dragonborn be such a truly _humble_ individual. Arngeir was certainly relieved she was who she was, even if she considered Altmer a valid source of food.

_Ulfric would like her if he could get past her mer blood,_ Arngeir thought quietly. _I hope they meet. She could teach him a thing or two._

“I pray it is so,” he said aloud. “So, Dragonborn, tell me about yourself if you please.”

“Well, did I ever tell you about the time I learned the best marinade for an Altmer is wild honey and garlic?” she asked with a grin. “You see, you need to get the tenderloin…”

To the end of his life, Arngeir could never tell if she was serious or not, as he refused her well-meaning offer of a meal. But by the time she left for Ustengrav, he was genuinely fond of her, and prayed to Kynareth that her dream of a quiet home with a beautiful wife and a couple children became true.

It would be a fitting end for the Last Dragonborn, the only one to ever consider the ethics of eating a dragon’s soul.


	3. Why Thalmor Hate Diplomatic Immunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ysraneth, half-Bosmer Nord, relates an old story to Elenwen. Elenwen is not amused but can't do anything because of diplomatic immunity. Later on, she gives Ulfric Stormcloak some advice. He might actually listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Delphine really expect Ysraneth to be subtle around Thalmor when there’s nothing else on the menu? Or for Ulfric not to attack Elenwen if he got a chance?

“Did you hear the story about the Thalmor who walked into a Bosmer feast?”

Elenwen, Ambassador to the wretched land of Skyrim, paused as a boisterous female voice hailed from the corner where three Jarls – Balgruuf the Greater, Elisif the Fair and Siddgeir – were clustered around the living insult to Thalmor standards of purity and perfection who was reputedly Dragonborn. Ysraneth (her very name an abomination) was a Bosmer lengthened by a foot, her broad shoulders testament to the powerful dragonbone bow she supposedly wielded, defiantly wearing the traditional war-paint of the Valenwood clans despite being a Nord by race. Rumour had it she was bedding Balgruuf’s bastard niece Lydia, a dark-haired woman with the statuesque beauty of the Nords who had once decapitated a dragon with a swing of the dragonbone broadsword she used. Apparently the Dragonborn was also a skilled fashioner of arms and armour. It was regretful her family were all dead or Elenwen would have used them to make her serve the Dominion as she should.

“No, we haven’t,” the Altmer observed silkily as she came up to the group. “Please, continue.”

Ysraneth’s smile was… unsettling. Elenwen had participated in the purges of Valenwood, which the primitive Bosmer didn’t realise were meant to better them as a race of mer, and recalled the vicious guerrilla campaigns that lasted a full fifty years. Even now the Bosmer were sullenly resistant to the point of the Aldmeri leaders wondering if the Blades were organising a resistance.

“Well, the Bosmer thanked him very kindly for arriving and invited him to dinner. When the Thalmor Justicar sat down and looked at them, he realised they were ragged and thin. As the Altmer do when amongst the lesser peoples, he asked the Bosmer how they’d managed to get into that state. The elder of the clan looked back at the Justicar and said very quietly, ‘All of our food was killed. We were deciding which of our number should lay down their lives for the good of the clan’.”

Elenwen met the halfbreed’s eyes, unsettled by the verdant green hue of a Bosmer peering out from the small round orbs of a human. “If they were sensible and abandoned their barbarian ways, they wouldn’t have had such a problem,” she pointed out sardonically.

“Funny enough, the Justicar said something similar. The elder of the clan looked at him and pointed out that the first recorded civilisation in Tamriel was the kingdom of Valenwood. That the wood elves were the first to greet humanity as equals after the Alessian wars. That for a good several thousand years, the Bosmer had done just fine following the Green Pact of Yff’re and that under the Meat Mandate, his people were the least wasteful and most pacifistic of Tamriel’s races.”

“The Bosmer were once Aldmer,” Elenwen reminded her, uneasy about the direction of this conversation. “We saved them in the Interregnum and again during the Oblivion Crisis.”

“Isn’t that funny? The Justicar made the same argument and the elder reminded him that it was Queen Ayrenn who approached the Bosmer and Khajiit during the former… and that we only have the Thalmor’s word on the latter.”

Several people shifted uncomfortably, including the Jarls and the Bosmer servants. If Ysraneth thought she was making a point with all of this, Elenwen would be forced to disabuse her of the notion quickly. Opinion amongst her superiors was divided on whether stopping Alduin was a good thing; some believed he would devour the universe entire and return it to its primordial state but others believed he would regurgitate Nirn into a different form, which would be horrible to those descended from the Aedra themselves.

“We have given your father’s people peace and prosperity unseen since the days of the Camoran Dynasty,” Elenwen responded curtly. “We only wish to share enlightenment with the rest of Tamriel. We are the best at what we do.”

“Damn, do all you Thalmor read the same script? Because the Justicar said that too, pointing out the roads and buildings you’d built from the resources of Valenwood. Some of the Bosmer even helped you, forsaking the Green Pact for temporary comfort and stability. The elder looked at him and said, ‘Your roads killed our food, Justicar. Tell us in your superior wisdom – who amongst us should be eaten first?’”

Ysraneth’s voice had lost its boisterousness, becoming soft and hushed. Despite her crudely Nord features, she reminded Elenwen of the Bosmer storyteller her father had hired for her tenth birthday. He died, of course, for not living up to Lord Elcarian’s standards – but for a moment, Elenwen had been lost in tales of wild things and a lush green landscape. “I guess, if I were in that situation, I would sacrifice the least productive amongst you for the good of the tribe,” she answered slowly. “It would have purged them of its imperfections.”

“What do you know? That’s what the Justicar said. So the Bosmer raised their eyes to the canopy, thanked Yff’re and the Thalmor for their wisdom, and then promptly ate him.”

It took Elenwen a moment to realise the moral of the so-called story as Balgruuf coughed suspiciously into his fist, Idgrod’s eyes twinkled and Siddgeir simply looked bewildered. “I will see you flayed alive!” she hissed, drawing on her magicka to summon a bound sword.

“No, you will not,” Ysraneth replied serenely, untroubled by the magic given form in the Ambassador’s hand. “Because I haven’t broken a single damned rule of your cursed Concordat. I haven’t professed a belief in Talos, I haven’t threatened or impeded a Justicar, and as Thane of Whiterun, Morthal and Falkreath, I have something called ‘diplomatic immunity’.”

“You’ve made fun of me!” Elenwen retorted, gesturing to the crowd. “You’ve mocked the entire Dominion!”

“I’m not the one who’s cast Bound Sword and threatening a dinner guest with it,” Ysraneth pointed out quite reasonably. “I simply provided an alternative viewpoint. Isn’t that what diplomacy is all about?”

“Madam Ambassador, I’m sure that Ysraneth is asserting that many different cultures can live together harmoniously if we just sit down and try to understand each other,” Elisif, the stupid little chit, assured the Altmer. “I didn’t know all those things about the Bosmer. Were we really once friends with them?”

Ysraneth nodded, her green gaze filled with cool amusement at Elenwen’s expense. “Yeah. It was the Alessian fanatics who pretty much screwed up our friendship though.”

“Point taken,” Balgruuf murmured, glancing at Elenwen nervously. “Ambassador, can you please banish your sword? It’s… well… unsettling.”

With a flex of will, Elenwen returned the minor spirit to Oblivion, reminding herself that she was under orders to avoid attacking the Dragonborn unless she was a direct threat to the Dominion. Unfortunately, she wasn’t at that level… yet.

“You are a Nord,” she observed through gritted teeth. “Who are you to lecture _me_ about the Bosmer?”

“My mother died when I was a child and I was raised by my Bosmer father,” Ysraneth responded flatly. “I follow the Green Pact and a modified version of the Meat Mandate – I eat no Nords or Bosmer if I can absolutely help it. Thankfully, I’m a good enough huntress to not have to resort to such straits.”

“You made a cannibal a _Thane_ and let her fuck your niece?” Elenwen demanded of Balgruuf. Much to her concern, the man met her eyes squarely, his gaze cold as the winds outside.

“If we are being technical, a cannibal is someone who eats a member of their own race,” the Jarl of Whiterun countered coolly. “Ysraneth saved Whiterun from the dragon Mirmulnir and has slain four more who dared to come for the remains of Numinex. Even Alduin flies over Whiterun and leaves it be.”

“She’s killed vampires and bandits galore. I hear the Companions are complaining because she’s taking so much of their work,” Idgrod added with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Vampires taste awful, just so you know,” Ysraneth drawled amusedly.

“You’re enjoying this!” Elenwen hissed at her.

“Fuck yes. I’ve watched you abuse your Bosmer servants all damn night long and can’t do a thing because of diplomatic immunity. But you also have to listen to me tell stories my daddy raised me on and can’t do a damned thing because of the same reason. Isn’t international convention a wonderful thing?”

“One day you will misstep, Dragonborn, and I will have your head!” Elenwen hissed in Altmeris. “I will have your lovely Lydia given to atronachs, your precious Whiterun burned-“

“One day, Elenwen, the Thalmor will be purged by your own people,” Ysraneth retorted with a sweet smile. “Because I can tell you that you are the least productive of the Altmer.”

How the hell had she missed this… this… _freak of nature_ possessing an education equal to a bard? Elenwen knew then and there she’d have to provoke the Dragonborn into becoming a direct threat to the Dominion. “I will have every Bosmer here executed painfully,” she said aloud in Bosmeri, enjoying the flinches of the wood elves.

“Actually, since you’re in Skyrim, churls have the right to leave their employers and find new ones,” Ysraneth pointed out. “Hey, Children of Bark – who wants to work for me?”

Every servant in the place, from Malborn who’d just entered from the kitchen looking flustered to the serving girl getting harassed by Erikur, raised their hands.

“Your families will die if you leave here,” Elenwen warned them.

“My family was purged,” Malborn retorted.

“As was mine,” added another.

“I’m an orphan from one of the great storms in Valenwood,” the serving girl said quietly. “You can’t hurt us, Ambassador, and we’re leaving.”

Elenwen’s eyes met those of Ysraneth, hotly promising retribution. “You will die the next time we meet without diplomatic immunity,” she promised softly.

Ysraneth smirked. “Honey, I eat dragons for breakfast. You’re not even a threat.”

Then she turned to the spellbound crowd and began a long, rambling story on how she discovered the best way to cook Altmer tenderloin was to marinate it in wild honey and garlic for half a day before gently cooking it into a melting softness. And because of diplomatic immunity, Elenwen had to grit her teeth and endure it.

…

“Well, shit. You just wasted a good meal there, Stormcloak.”

The despairing scream of Elenwen was suddenly cut off with a wet smack, the echoes of Ulfric’s Shout fading from the air. The Jarl of Windhelm, called to parlay with the Imperials because of the threat of Alduin, turned to face the woman who had organised the truce with a raised eyebrow. “I had heard you were a cannibal, but I never expected it to be true.”

“I don’t eat Nords or Bosmer unless I’m literally starving to death, tend to be the same with the other races of men, avoid Dunmer because they’re ashy - sorry, Irileth! – and Orsimer because they never clean themselves enough. Fur and scales stick to my teeth, so rarely beastmen. But Altmer…” Ysraneth smacked her lips with relish.

Ulfric surprised himself by laughing softly. The Dragonborn was a somewhat unexpected ally despite supporting Balgruuf’s neutrality in the civil war. “I apologise for ruining your dinner,” he managed to joke.

“So you should be. Now I have to go hunting for more because I promised Paarthunax a meal.” The Dragonborn paused and added with genuine sincerity, “You’re welcome too.”

“Ah, thank you but no,” Ulfric responded hastily.

Tullius stalked out of the monastery, followed by Rikke. “Where’s Elenwen?” he demanded.

“She discovered Altmer can’t fly,” Ysraneth told him.

“Did you kill her?” Rikke, his old sword-sister, asked bluntly.

“Please, would I waste a good meal Shouting her off the mountain?”

Ulfric smiled slightly when Tullius’ furious gaze swung his way. “I pledged not to harm the Imperial forces,” he pointed out mildly. “There was nothing in there about the Thalmor.”

Rikke hid a smile behind one hand as Tullius grunted. “I didn’t invite her,” he admitted. “But dammit, Ulfric, I thought this was one of your holy places! You don’t kill people in temples!”

“Technically, she was halfway down the path,” Ysraneth corrected the General.

“You should be a fucking lawyer, Dragonborn,” Tullius retorted.

“Fuck you, General, I have morals!” Ysraneth, the cannibal, looked quite offended at being compared to a lawyer. Ulfric supposed even evil had its standards.

He was uneasy about her open embracing of her Bosmer heritage but… well… who was he to judge a woman for following her upbringing when she would be risking her life soon?

Balgruuf emerged from High Hrothgar with his niece and Irileth in tow. The man was clad in fine dragonscale armour with a dragonbone sword on his hip; Lydia in dragonbone plate with a massive two-handed sword across her shoulders; and even Irileth sported dragonbone weapons. The Dragonborn was generous to her patron and lover, it seemed.

“I’ll be glad for this to be over,” Ysraneth confessed as she looked over the landscape of Skyrim. “I got a nice estate in Falkreath, between the woods and the lake. Plan to settle down with Lydia, adopt some kids, teach Elenwen’s former servants how to be Bosmer.”

“You won’t war against the Altmer?” Ulfric thought she loathed the witch-elves. With some of the terse stories she’d shared of purges and destruction of the forests in Valenwood…

“The Thalmor, yes. But not the Altmer.” Ysraneth sighed. “There’s a Legate in the Rift named Fasendil. He’s Altmer… and he fucking hates the Thalmor with an unholy passion. He hates what they’ve done to his people, to the Empire… Assuming that every Altmer is Thalmor’s like them assuming every Nord is a big burly skin-wearing barbarian who hates elves.”

“But they will come back one day,” Ulfric pointed out.

“And we’ll be ready for them. Ulfric, if you want to be smart about fighting the Thalmor, you should contact the resistances in Valenwood, Elseweyr and Summerset Isles. If you pull your head out of the mer-hating Nord assholitude for a moment, you’ll see you have more allies than you know.” The Dragonborn shrugged, her Jarl and lover talking to Tullius several feet away. “I can even give you some names.”

“Why?” he asked. “I thought Balgruuf was loyal to the Empire. Why give me this advice?”

“My loyalty is to Whiterun. Attack the place and I will call the storm over Windhelm until it’s nothing but a broken ruin,” Ysraneth promised softly, coldly. “But you’re attacking the wrong people, Ulfric. None of the Jarls liked the White-Gold Concordat, but humanity simply couldn’t fight anymore. I suspect that Titus Mede’s hoping we’ll outbreed the Altmer by the time they’re ready to fight again.”

Ulfric stared at her. She was a huntress turned Dragonborn. How the hell did she manage to be so aware of politics and diplomacy?

Ysraneth’s smile was mocking. “Your face looks similar to Elenwen’s when she realised I understood what ‘diplomatic immunity’ was,” she drawled sardonically. “For your information, Ulfric, I can speak four languages, read in three, and I’m a recognised bard at the College in Solitude. The first two were before I found out I can eat dragon souls.”

By the Nine, the woman was better educated than him. “I didn’t mean insult,” he assured her hastily.

“I know you didn’t. But men and mer need to talk more. Not all the elves are in cahoots with each other, and the ones who are were conquered,” she said sadly. “Talos might have been an all-conquering jackhole, but he brought people together like they hadn’t been before. You worship the former, Rikke worships the latter. But he’s the same God.”

“Ulfric?” Galmar’s gravelly voice interrupted their conversation. “We need to make a tour of the camps and tell them we’re standing down now until Alduin is dead.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Ulfric looked back to the Dragonborn, nodding cordially to her. “I will… think on what you’ve said, Dragonborn.”

“Great!” The half-mer Nord grinned cheerfully. “Come around to my place one day and I’ll treat you to Thalmor tenderloin marinated in wild honey and garlic.”

Much to Ulfric’s surprise and vague horror, Galmar looked tempted by the offer. His huscarl had some issues from the Great War, different ones to Ulfric’s. Neither pried into the other’s inner demons. “Ah… thank you, Dragonborn. We should go. Talos guide you.”

“And you,” she farewelled before turning back to Balgruuf and Lydia.

For the rest of his days, Ulfric couldn’t figure out if she was the best or the worst Nord he knew. But he didn’t begrudge her desire for peace and tolerance. Not one bit. Not when he envied her that calm serenity and acceptance of her place in the world.


	4. Thalmor Tenderloin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odahviing meets the Dragonborn and gets to try her famous Thalmor Tenderloin on the eve of the journey to Sovngarde. Lydia figures a little nibble won't kill her either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, Thu’um Translator.

“Hungry?”

Odahviing peered down at the Dovahkiin, wondering why she wasn’t hurrying to hunt down Alduin and finish him off. Three days he had been here, two of them unbound, and each day she’d come here for a few hours to just… speak to him. It was disconcerting but after tasting the cruel blades and arrows of her joorre, the red dragon was willing to indulge her.

“Iiz-Raan-Aaz,” he greeted genially, wondering why she had dragged along a few dead Kriisfahliil.

“Thalmor patrol was harassing a group of worshippers at a shrine of Talos,” she explained, following his gaze. “I figured since I’m going to Sovngarde, I’ll eat like a champ before I leave.”

_Ice-Beast-Mercy,_ he reflected on the draconic name Paarthunax had thundered out in the wake of his battle with Alduin, the World-Eater fleeing to Sovngarde like a coward. She had been merciful to the white dragon at the behest of his joorre and appeared to only fight dovahhe when they were stupid enough to even cross the land she claimed as her own. But when she hunted the dragons, she was utterly without mercy, and turned their remains into weapons and armour for her joorre.

“You offer me one then?” He hadn’t expected her to feed him.

“Well, yes. Hell, have a couple.” She sighed and looked up at the Throat of the World. “I’d cook ‘em properly, but Balgruuf tells me every hour I delay, more souls get eaten by Alduin. One of them might be my mother… _monahi_.”

Odahviing didn’t understand why that was important, but he appreciated the gesture. _“Nox hi,”_ he responded, and began to devour one of the dead golden elves.

It was delicious with a sweet pungent flavour he tried to identify. “What is this slick coating on them?” he asked.

“Wild honey and garlic,” the Dragonborn answered as she called fire to her hand to cook one of the slices she’d carved from the buttock of a dead elf. “Best way to have ‘em.”

“I did not realise joorre devoured each other,” he observed softly.

“Well, it tends to happen if you’re a Bosmer who follows the Green Pact and Meat Mandate,” she explained. “My mother was a Nord, but my father was Bosmer, so I follow a version of them I am comfortable with.”

She went on to explain what the Green Pact and Meat Mandate were, carefully cooking her meal, and Odahviing was impressed. One should never waste a dead enemy. And now he understood all the dragonbone and dragonscale things the joorre who’d trapped him wore.

“It is delicious,” he said at the end. “I find myself hoping we can have many meals like this again, Iiz-Raan-Aaz.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “The in-laws and the folk of Whiterun accept that I’m like this, but they’re still a bit… touchy. Can’t fault ‘em; they weren’t raised in the Green Pact. And my Da’s people don’t go hunting people for dinner most of the time. We prefer to keep to ourselves. But these bastards enslaved my Da’s people, so they have to fight.”

Then she told a story about a foolish Kriisfahliil who found himself in a Feyfahliil tribe’s cooking pot. Odahviing rumbled a laugh when she described one of their leaders getting Shouted off the Throat of the World by a Nord Tongue. The world would be a better place without these Kriisfahlil… Well, at least enough of them eaten to manage their numbers.

When her meat was ready, she cut it into pieces on a wooden plate and ate it delicately, savouring every bite. She was nearly on the last bit when the double doors leading into the hofkahsejun opened, two people – the Jun of this place and the one called Lydia – emerged.

“Hey,” Iiz-Raan-Aaz greeted, her mouth full. “Want some?”

The Jun shook his head, looking regretful. “I know you mean well, Ysraneth, and I wish I could honour you in such a way but…”

The Dragonborn shrugged, swallowing her mouthful. “It’s alright, Balgruuf. There’s some wild honey and garlic marinated pheasant on the table for you and Lydia.”

“You’re a good woman, Ysraneth,” the Jun responded with a smile. “And generous with it.”

Ysraneth (as the joorre called her) shrugged again, selecting another slice. Odahviing was onto his second elf now; the flight to Skuldafn would be a long hard one. “You’re family,” she said quietly. “I don’t leave family hungry or helpless.”

Lydia sat down by Ysraneth’s side, leaning her head on the Dragonborn’s shoulder. As Odahviing understood it, they were… mated. “I probably won’t be let into Sovngarde for this, but… I’ll have a bite,” she murmured. “You’ve been so accommodating of my beliefs, love, I should at least try to honour yours.”

Ysraneth’s smile was radiant… Then she frowned. “Shit, these elves aren’t the best quality-“

Balgruuf choked on his pheasant and Ysraneth glared at him. “Hey, would you feed Irileth cut-rate kwama?” she asked him.

The Jun gave her a startled glance. “You know about us?”

“I think the rats in Riften know about you two,” she grinned.

“Hmmph.” Irileth, the Dunmer, emerged from the shadows. “I will need to find the leak in our security and eliminate it.”

“I can eat it for you?” Odahviing offered helpfully. He knew that Alduin was most likely doomed and he wanted to be on the good side of the Dragonborn’s joorre.

“Hmmph.” Irileth sounded pleased.

Meanwhile,Ysraneth had cooked her second slice and cut off a tiny bit for Lydia. “Careful, it’s hot,” she warned, gazing at her lovingly.

Lydia tentatively nibbled at the slice of dead elf, licking her lips. “That is far tastier than it should be,” she admitted. “Aaaand I will go to Oblivion for this, no doubt.”

“If that happens, I’ll join you and we can kick Daedric arse,” Ysraneth promised, leaning her head against Lydia’s.

“I pray you both come back,” Balgruuf said softly. “Life wouldn’t be the same without you, Ysraneth.”

“I’ll come back,” she promised. “I need to conquer Falkreath. Siddgeir’s an idiot and Dengeir’s senile.”

Balgruuf nearly choked on his pheasant again as Odahviing blinked slowly. Wasn’t Falkreath a small joor town?

“So… if you become Jarl… would that make you the Cannib-Jarl?” Irileth asked, expression deadpan.

“Irileth, that pun was so bad Sheogorath facepalmed,” Ysraneth retorted dryly.

“One does one’s best.” The Dunmer’s stoic face cracked in a brief grin. “Do come back. Ulfric and Tullius won’t behave forever.”

“I will, trust me.” She grinned at the two. “Maybe I’ll conquer Skyrim so Balgruuf can be High King.”

“I would sooner walk naked through Morrowind during the Red Year,” the Jun said fervently.

“Perhaps I am confused, Iiz-Raan-Aaz, but why do you not conquer Keizaal for yourself?” Odahviing asked, a bit confused.

“Me… rule… Skyrim.” At her incredulous statement, everyone burst out laughing, including herself. “Ruling people means more than just conquering them, Odahviing. I’ve played politics now and then, but for the most part, I want to settle down to a quiet part of Skyrim and raise a bunch of kids. Oh, and marry Lydia of course.”

“Why?”

“Honestly? I’m not Talos fucking Reborn. The man was a jackhole. If I’m meant to be the last Dragonborn, there needs to be a good reason for that. I suspect I’ll be killing a lot more Altmer until the Thalmor are dead… but after Alduin, I’ll be glad to return to my life.” She smiled warmly at the people gathered on the porch. “I just have a lot more people in it this time.”

She’d lost interest in her meal, so Odahviing devoured the rest of the elves. No point wasting such delicious meat. “Lydia…”

“I’m coming.” The dark-haired woman’s voice was firm.

“Good. I’ll bring Uthgerd too. She might be useful dragon-fodder.”

“Ysraneth, you’re horrible!” Balgruuf laughed.

“What? More honour than that wench will ever have in her life.”

Irileth was laughing and shaking her head. “You’re good for a laugh, if nothing else. I am honoured to call you friend.”

“Me too, Irileth. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you have a heart.”

“Good. I have a reputation to maintain.” The Dunmer walked over and placed a hand on Balgruuf’s shoulder. “You should rest. The Holdthing is tomorrow.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Balgruuf sighed, then looked over at Ysraneth. “When do you go?”

The Dragonborn looked up at the sky. “Tomorrow at dawn.”

The Jun nodded. “I will fare you well then, kinswoman. You will return, both of you. Hilda will be offended if she doesn’t get to arrange the wedding feast.”

Ysraneth grinned. “I’ll bring back some Altmer for the main course.”

“Heh, bring back a piece of Alduin!” Balgruuf countered with a grin. “Dragonsreach needs a new ornament.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that skull is bloody wasteful?” Ysraneth retorted, smiling. “Stick a lantern in it or something. But make it bloody useful!”

“Yes, kinswoman.” The Jun rose to his feet and held out his arms. Much to Odahviing’s surprise, both the Dragonborn and her mate embraced him, Irileth joining in. It was brief but heartfelt.

“Come back,” the Jun told them. “Skyrim will be a poorer place without you.”

Ysraneth nodded, eyes glittering with water. “We will. Going to take more than Alduin to keep us from holding the wedding of the year.”

“Good. I have statements to make to those fools in Solitude and Windhelm.” The Jun and his Dunmer left the Great Porch, Lydia and Ysraneth staring at each other as Odahviing looked away, feeling suddenly awkward.

“I love you,” the Dragonborn told her mate fervently. “Loved you the first time you walked into the room.”

Lydia smiled cheekily. “Wasn’t quite the same for me. I had to wait until the first kiss.”

“Which was about five minutes after we were alone.”

“…True.” They embraced, kissing each other deeply, before parting with a sigh. “Let’s get some sleep,” Lydia suggested. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Don’t I know it.” Ysraneth looked up at Odahviing. “Sleep well, big guy.”

“You too, Iiz-Raan-Aaz.” Odahviing paused and added, “I hope you defeat Alduin. I… like this world.”

“See? I told you my Thalmor Tenderloin could bring anyone around,” Ysraneth told Lydia with a grin before giving Odahviing’s horns a quick scratch. “Sorry ‘bout the trap thing.”

Odahviing shrugged. He’d been trapped through his own arrogance. Not that he’d admit it aloud.

Ysraneth laughed and led her mate inside. It would be too soon until dawn and her date with destiny.


	5. Wedding of the Year (Pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Ysraneth finally get married. Sanguine shows up. Shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are where the mildly dubious consent comes in due to the drunken crack one-night stands. Everyone's drunk enough to be having fun but not blackout drunk.

Ysraneth was many things – Thane of Three Holds, Alduin’s Bane, Dragonborn, Eater-of-Thalmor – but in all the time he’d known her, Balgruuf had never seen her nervous. Worried, yes, and even stunned; but never, ever showing something like fear. The half-Bosmer Nord was staring up at High Hrothgar from the Great Porch, a red draconic head by her side as Odahviing sprawled on what had been his favourite place to brood but was now a glorified dragon-perch, and twitching. “What if she realises she can do a lot better than me and runs screaming from the Great Hall?” she was asking the amused dovah nervously.

“Opinions about your dietary choices aside, I know that you are perfect for Lydia and she for you,” Balgruuf observed warmly as he joined them. “I will be proud to call you kinswoman, Ysraneth.”

He recalled the first time he’d met the huntress: clad in rough fur armour, a recurved hunting bow on her back with precious steel arrows, she’d stumbled into his hall a year ago to warn of Alduin’s attack on Helgen. The long, dun-brown scalp-lock, inverted teardrop face, slanted forest-green eyes and beige-olive skin were still the same, perhaps just a trifle more lined, but now she wore handcrafted armour of the finest dragonscale and a mighty dragonbone bow. The quiver of tanned Altmer skin was the only original piece of equipment she maintained.

Balgruuf never regretted embracing the huntress as Thane and assigning Lydia to her, even after her… ah… unorthodox dietary preferences became public knowledge. Ysraneth made a lot of noise about the Green Pact and Meat Mandate but only went out of her way to eat Altmer – and of those, she only focused on the Thalmor. Bless her heart, she apologised to Irileth constantly for finding Dunmer too ‘ashy’ for her tastes like it was a big insult; his huscarl simply shook her head in amusement. Gregarious, kind and generous to a fault, Ysraneth had fallen head over heels with Lydia on meeting her, and his niece with her. Given some of the stories about his Dragonborn ancestor Olaf One-Eye, Balgruuf was rather relieved that this one had few territorial ambitions despite her half-joking claim she was going to take over Falkreath.

Oh, she had her faults, and cannibalism was the least of them. Ysraneth had let her hatred for the Thalmor override her judgment a few times, she truly couldn’t comprehend the point of displaying trophies unless they were useful, and she was as opinionated as Olfrid and Vignar, his two old Thanes. Balgruuf chuckled as he recalled her physically standing up during one Holdthing and literally banging their heads together; it had cost him (well, her) a pair of fine dragonbone daggers for the weregild.

“Thanks,” Ysraneth said sincerely. “It’s just that… shit. I’m a glorified huntress with a taste for fine dining. And now I’m getting married into a Jarl’s family.”

Balgruuf smirked at her. “You’re the only one I know who could call eating Thalmor ‘a taste for fine dining’.”

“Hey, they think of themselves as superior. You’d think they’d be flattered,” she observed dryly.

Odahviing, hitherto silent, nodded agreeably. “They are quite delicious,” the dragon said. “I got to eat a few more recently.”

“Today’s main course came from Northwatch Keep,” Ysraneth explained, expression briefly grim. “The bastards were holding Thorald Grey-Mane.”

“Good. Good…” The Thalmor had unleashed terror upon Tamriel during the Great War. Though cannibalism was abhorrent to most civilised beings, it was pleasing to know that Ysraneth’s dietary choices were scaring the shit out of the Altmer and that the Empire could spread its hands and claim ‘freedom of religion’ from the old agreement between Tiber Septim and Valenwood…

“Okay, we got a few Bosmer dinner guests and one Breton who apparently likes the taste of Altmer,” Ysraneth added, rubbing her long nose. “It was either leave her to chew on Markarth’s dead or invite her for dinner here.”

“…Servant of Namira?” Balgruuf’s education at the Bards’ College had taught him about most of the major Daedric cults.

“I _think_ so. Creepy, that shit. She wanted me to bring around a Priest of Arkay but I brought around the head of the Justicars instead in return for her help in handling some Forsworn.” Ysraneth shuddered. “I don’t mess with the Aedra but I certainly didn’t want to piss off the Daedric Prince of cannibalism.”

Balgruuf, familiar with moral compromises on a daily basis as Jarl, nodded slowly. “Does Lydia know this?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t want to push.” Ysraneth looked up at High Hrothgar again. “Sometimes I think about saying ‘Fuck it all’ and returning to High Hrothgar. Arngeir was a bit frosty the last time I was there because I was working with Delphine and Esbern, but I was able to shut those two down right smart. They want to kill all the dragons and I’m like, ‘Hey, if they’re minding their own business like Odahviing or helping humanity like Paarthunax, they’re fine’.”

Odahviing slitted his eyes as the Dragonborn scratched his horns idly. “There are enough joorre who dare to threaten the lands Iiz-Raan-Aaz guards as her own to feed a hundred dovahhe, not to mention all the Kriisfahlil,” he observed.

“I’m honestly hoping the Thalmor will get the fucking picture to stay on their islands and leave everyone alone,” Ysraneth agreed softly. “If I can get the dragons to pin them down, Valenwood and Elseweyr might be able to free themselves without me needing to leave Skyrim.”

“Or at least buy us time,” Balgruuf murmured. It always surprised him how much she understood of the bigger picture. If only Olfrid and Vignar had half her insight.

“My Da was a noble in the days before the Thalmor took over,” Ysraneth confessed softly. “Not that noble really meant much in Valenwood. It just meant you were a better hunter than others. Our only real dynasty was the Camorans… and thanks to that Daedra-loving prick, they died out.”

“You’d be a better Jarl than you think,” Balgruuf found himself saying. “If you take over Falkreath and Idgrod joins us, we could keep the balance in Skyrim as neutrals.”

“Nenya’s already dropping hints because Siddgeir’s beggaring the Hold,” Ysraneth observed flatly. “Damn fool. And Dengeir’s off his nut with dementia now and Thadgeir’s too much of a pushover…”

She punched him in the shoulder. “Bastard. You’ve talked me into it.”

“My niece deserves a Jarl. And your house is nicer than Siddgeir’s.” Balgruuf didn’t bother trying to hide his triumphant grin.

“You just want to make yourself related to one more bloody Jarl.” Ysraneth paused and then added, “Unless you’re trying to humour Irileth with her Cannib-Jarl pun.”

“I’d forgotten that,” Balgruuf laughed. “Should I tell her?”

“Wait until I pull it off. And given I intend to make Falkreath Hold a sanctuary for Bosmer escaping Valenwood…” Ysraneth rolled her broad shoulders under her armour. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

Balgruuf grinned. “I am _not_ going to tell my niece you just said that.”

“You’re all heart, Balgruuf. Thanks.”

…

Maramal knew better than to comment on the meat roasting on a spit, the amount of Bosmer wearing golden leather and unnerving grins, or the dragon perched on the roof of Jorrvaskr. Ysraneth, as a huntress, wanted to get married under the newly regrown Gildergreen. The priest wasn’t going to argue with the Dragonborn who had an unnerving habit of eating people.

Guests from all over Skyrim were gathered in the centre of the Wind District. Ulfric, Tullius, Elisif, Kodlak… Lucia, the couple’s first adopted daughter, stood proudly holding the Bonds of Matrimony rings. Whatever Ysraneth’s dietary faults, she clearly had a big heart.

As the niece of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, Lydia descended from the stairs to Dragonsreach, accompanied by her family. She wore the dragonbone plate Ysraneth had forged for her under the watchful eye of Eorlund and her sculpted face was serene, alight with the love that could only come from Mara’s grace.

Ysraneth stood under the Gildergreen, wearing her dragonscale leathers, looking a little nervous. At least one spouse was always convinced the other would run away once they realised they could do better; but Maramal expected that of Lydia, not the Dragonborn.

But that they truly loved? Aye, Maramal could feel it.

The ceremony was brief but significant. Maramal had to cough pointedly to make sure the post-vows embrace remained suitable for public decency and Odahviing’s triumphant Shout nearly knocked off the steeple of the Temple of Kynareth. He’d barely pronounced the blessing when everyone started running for the food and drink.

Maramal sighed and shook his head. Nords had no appreciation of the sacred.

…

“Mmm, I see what all the fuss is about,” Anoriath announced, chowing down on a bit of Thalmor. “Finally, a use for Altmer.”

“Thalmor,” Ysraneth corrected. “I got no quarrel with the Altmer who mind their own damned business.”

“Okay, okay…” Anoriath sighed, then blinked. “Hey, is Galmar helping himself to a slice?”

“Hey, offer’s open for anyone to try it,” the Dragonborn told her fellow hunter.

“Yeah, well, Eola’s giving me creepy vibes…”

“Eola! Quit staring at the guests. They’re not dinner!” Ysraneth yelled to the priestess of Namira in Breton.

Eola grumbled but nodded. Ever since Ysraneth had helped her get the Ring of Namira, they’d been odd friends. Lydia didn’t much like her, so Ysraneth kept it casual.

(In another life, they could have been something. Maybe that was what made Lydia dislike the woman).

“Hey, Yssie, can I liven this party up?” asked a roughened, all-too-familiar voice. The Dragonborn turned to face the Breton guise of Sam… a.k.a. Sanguine.

“Nothing illegal, non-consensual or involving kids and animals, okay?” she countered.

“I was thinking more of sticking a Stormcloak in bed with an Imperial and seeing what happens.”

“Arrange for me to see it with fried Thalmor bits and it’s a go.” For a Daedric Prince, Sanguine was pretty cool so long as you kept him within reasonable limits.

“Done!” Sanguine faded into the crowd and Ysraneth grabbed Lydia’s hand.

“Shit’s about to get frisky. Want to get out now?”

Her wife grinned, having joined her on the night of shenanigans with Sanguine, and nodded. “Let’s go,” she agreed.

Running away, holding each other’s hands and laughing like errant children, Ysraneth knew that it might just be okay in the end. She’d won the war. She got the girl. Wasn’t a perfect happy ending, because those only happened in books, but it was good enough for her.


	6. Wedding of the Year (Pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All pairings are implied and many are totally cracky, all chosen by my readers. I refuse to apologise for any horrifying mental imagery that your subconscious provides. Random jokes from pop culture throughout. Enjoy!

Galmar didn’t know what was in that drink Ysraneth’s friend Sam shared, but it warmed the belly like a slow fire and made the world brighter. He found himself laughing more, even with Imperials, and teaching everyone the words to a drinking song that described the many ways to kill a Thalmor. Much to his surprise (or perhaps not, Ysraneth had made it clear that none here were friends to the Thalmor, especially since they were the main course), that song was a hit with General Tullius, who added his own verses or three that had ideas that were gruesome even by Galmar’s standards. There was something about hearing new and unique ways for Thalmor to die, delivered in a slurred West Wealde accent with a touch of High Rock brogue, that made Galmar like the General very, very much.

The Stone-Fist looked around for Ulfric and found him speaking animatedly to Rikke, their old friend who’d never abandoned the Legion. Given that the Dragonborn had made it abundantly clear that to violate the truce of her wedding day would be to become the main course for the thank-you feast for her pureblood Bosmeri guards, Galmar figured that his lord was safe enough and decided to pay more attention to the General.

Tullius was swaying a bit, being a lightweight when it came to good old Nord mead, and continuing to slur drunken verses about killing Thalmor. Galmar never expected he’d have something in common with an Imperial who denied Talos, but the Colovian was just a soldier like so many other Legion veterans; Ysraneth had once pointed out that the people of the Empire weren’t to blame for the White-Gold Concordat, just the Emperor and maybe the Elder Council.

(She’d also said some uncomplimentary things about Talos, but no one was going to take it up with the woman who’d killed and eaten Alduin, after all).

“Give us a few weeks and we’ll make a Stormcloak of you yet!” Galmar said heartily, slapping the Colovian on the shoulder and sending him staggering.

“Hic. Put me in one of your dresses and you can wear one of mine,” Tullius responded cheerfully. “Then we can play tonsil hockey.”

Galmar didn’t know what tonsil hockey was but putting Tullius in a Stormcloak uniform was mightily amusing. They managed to acquire uniforms from Ralof and Elisif, who were stark naked and singing the ‘What Do You Do with a Freshly Killed Thalmor’ song. Cannibalism was socially unacceptable – except in Valenwood – but their hostess had been raised in the Green Pact. And Galmar had to admit she really knew what she was talking about when cooking Thalmor.

They passed Sam, the little Breton with the wonderful drink, and raised mugs to him. The man was literally pissing himself laughing at the merriment his drink was causing while some random old Imperial in motley garb was silent in awe. “I never knew you had such madness in you!” the motley-clad Imperial told the Breton.

“Please, you helped make the drink,” Sam told his friend. “Now, remember Yssie’s requests.”

“Oh, I know. It’s her party and she killed Alduin and all.” The Imperial sighed. “Oh well, maybe I’ll go bother Cicero. He’s good for a laugh and it annoys Sithis.”

“Have fun, Sheo,” Sam urged.

Galmar and Tullius wound up on a couch playing tonsil hockey. It was fun. Galmar was having a wonderful time and he owed it all to Ysraneth’s friend Sam.

…

Sam Guevenne was rubbing his hands in glee when Yssie, bless her little cannibal heart, arrived several hours later with the smile of one who had utterly debauched herself with a willing and adept partner. “Your idea was so good I had to expand on it,” the Daedric Prince told the half-Bosmer with a grin.

“You’re not kidding,” Yssie said, looking awed. “Galmar and Tullius – shit, I need _that_ image out of my head. Ralof and Elisif – oooh, that could work. He’s young and virile, she’s pretty and lonely, and they’re both just dumb enough to like each other. Well, I’ll be – Wut. Vittoria Vicci’s decided she wants some of Kai’s wet pommel. Asgeir’s totally going to be heartbroken.”

Sam grinned evilly. “Sorry, not all of them are… ah…”

“Yeah, yeah, conducive to keeping a good meal in my belly, I know. So! Idgrod – you go, old girl! – and that old fart from the Companions while Aslfur builds closer relationships with Riften… err, Laila Law-Giver. I hope casual drunken adultery isn’t a big deal up here.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sam assured her. “Look over there.”

“What. The. Fuck. Is Ulfric really trying to snog half the Imperial Command and Rikke the Stormcloaks?”

“It was a bet, I believe.”

“Fasendil looks like he was wishing he was dinner. Oh, hey, Olfina and Jon. No surprise _there_.”

“Maramal made himself useful and married them before he left.”

“Amazing. He’s not a totally useless twat then.”

“Hey, you should come to some of the Aedra/Daedra mixers. Mara, bless her little cotton socks, is one of the kinkiest ladies out there. Even Dibella was impressed.”

“I’m a one-Nord woman, Sam, but thanks for the invite.” Yssie leaned against the balcony, watching Dragonsreach’s hall turn into a glorious mess of drunken debauchery. “Hey, they ate all the tenderloin!”

“Get people drunk enough and they’ll crave anything,” Sam told her with a smile. “By the way, Namira popped through and tried some. She thinks it’s a bit too fresh but otherwise tasty.”

“You kept Balgruuf out of it, right? The guy’s got a great thing going on with Irileth and I’d hate to bugger it up.”

“They’re doing a little personal debauchery in his bedroom. I never would have guessed the Jarl of Whiterun was into-“

“Sam, I love your work. I really do. But Balgruuf’s my uncle-in-law. I really don’t need details on his love life.”

“Suit yourself. But seriously, ask Irileth about knots. She’s really good at them.”

“I’ll do that. She’s pretty awesome.” The Dragonborn sighed happily, looking over the scene below. “Do you think this will stop the Civil War? I got people I like on both sides of the mess and… yeah. The Thalmor are the ones who win if it continues.”

“Debauchery, my dear, is a great equaliser,” Sam observed quietly, his tone serious. “See Nilsine there? She’s into Hadvar. Same with Ralof and Elisif. They’ll wake up sober tomorrow – no hangovers, I’m not that mean – and realise they’ve done wonderfully debauched things with people who are meant to be their mortal enemies. Some will never speak of it again. Others will spend most of their lives regretting it. A few might remain enemies. But a fair few of these people will realise they’re quite compatible, there are far better groups than each other to hate, and Mara will be gaga over all the weddings which ensue.”

“I never pegged you for a peacemaker, Sam.”

“While war can make for lots of quick and dirty fun, I much prefer peacetime. It allows for greater prosperity, which gives people more free time, which leads to sustainable growth in debauchery.”

“You sound like a businessman.”

“I am. I deal in debauchery and what close-minded people call sin.” Sam sipped from his brew, nodding appreciatively. “Molag Bal takes all the fun out of it and Mephala is all about deception. I like to bring the truth out in people. Sometimes that means they don’t like what they see about themselves.”

“Huh –EOLA, FASENDIL IS A _GUEST_ , NOT _DINNER_!Oh. Oh. I get how she’s… ah… Damn, that girl is creepy as shit.”

“Namira is into some really kinky shit,” Sam agreed. “Though it’s funny that a cannibal has her limits.”

“Hey, I believe in consenting parties. It’s more fun that way.”

“Good point.” Sam looked at her sideways. “Where’s Lydia?”

“Talking to Odahviing. By talking, I mean teaching him dirty songs.”

“I _like_ that girl,” Sam said smugly.

“Keep it to distant admiration and we’ll get on just fine.”

“Fos dreh mu dreh voth fau dilon Thalmor? Fos dreh mu dreh voth fau dilon Thalmor? Fos dreh mu dreh voth fau dilon Thalmor? Vath ko feyl!”

“Stuff him with snowberries and cook him slow. Stuff him with snowberries and cook him slow. Stuff him with snowberries and cook him slow, early in the morning!”

“Oooh, I’ll have to remember that one,” Yssie said gleefully.

“Me too,” Sam observed. “You know, I like you. You’re unpretentious, honest and genuinely enjoy a good time. Bit monogamous for my tastes, but I suppose we can’t have everything.”

“Thanks.” Yssie smiled, looking genuinely touched. Sam admitted he liked to tempt and taunt people into a life of sin, but that was to shake them out of their stuffiness. Yssie had never given a shit to begin with, so his night with her and Lydia had been more about fun instead of getting them over themselves so they could enjoy life.

“By the Nine!” Balgruuf, a delightfully private pervert with a Dunmer fetish, emerged from his bedroom to behold the party down below. “Ysraneth, what’s going on?”

“Hey. Sam Guevenne, meet Balgruuf. Balgruuf, meet the guy who’s helping the Stormcloaks and Imperials get over themselves.”

“Sam Guevenne – Oh boy.” Balgruuf flushed, rather adorably, and nodded with surprising respect. “I trust this mess will be cleaned up?”

“I’ll put some dremora on it,” Sam promised. “In a week or so.”

“…Wat. Siddgeir’s into _that_? Ewww. I’m never going to look at Khajiit in the same way again.”

“Oh, my. That is… something.” Even Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Jarl of Falkreath.

“I’m going back to bed,” Balgruuf announced to the air. “Wake me up when the party’s over.”

“Sure thing, kinsman.” Yssie smiled at the old guy before he left.

“I’ll clean up in a day or two,” Sam promised Yssie. “So… would you say ‘Mission accomplished’?”

“Well, half of the party is now wedded and/or betrothed, a quarter of the rest are going to wake up and never speak of it again, and a fair few are going to hate each other no matter what, I suspect that the Civil War died a messy death.” Yssie shook her head in awe. “I’m impressed, Sam. And thanks. When I prayed for a solution to this damned mess, I wasn’t expecting your help.”

“You’re welcome. Besides, I never expected Thalmor would be good for something other than shame-filled orgies. Your signature dish is a hit in Oblivion. It’s so good it’s permanently on offer in my part of the world.”

“Great.” Yssie actually looked pleased. “If the Thalmor are scared of getting eaten, it might keep them at home.”

“My dear, I guarantee the Thalmor are personally terrified of you. The Night Mother told me last week that they’re trying to figure out how to do the Black Sacrament and get you killed. Oddly enough, the Dark Brotherhood doesn’t seem to be interested in answering.”

“Turns out the new Listener’s a Bosmer,” Yssie said with a grin. “It seems that the Listener has a certain amount of discretion in what contracts to pursue.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Yeah.” Yssie sighed, momentarily pensive. “I don’t know what I’m going to do for feasts when the Altmer stop being Thalmor.”

“Given the frightful levels of stubbornness displayed by the high elves, I imagine you’ll live to ripe old age eating Thalmor tenderloin,” Sam assured her. “Failing that, I’ll send dremora to you with some.”

“Awww, you’re the best Daedric Prince ever!” Yssie gave him a hug, which was quite touching.

Sam returned it, nearly cracking the Nord’s ribs. “You’re the best Dragonborn ever. No, seriously, Talos still hasn’t forgiven me for the Altmer courtesan dressed like the Numidium.”

“That jackhole’s a god?”

“Yeah. He’s… sorta kinda necessary to keeping this world going. Hero-God, stops Akatosh unravelling, that sort of thing.”

Yssie frowned. “Well, _shit._ ”

“He isn’t the first. You’re certainly welcome to his job if you’d like. Oblivion knows you’d liven up the mixers.”

Not that Sam had anything against Talos (beyond his colossal ego and hypocritical nature combined with a supreme dislike of anything resembling fun), but Yssie would make an awesome god. An Aedra who’d party with the Daedra? Hell yes!

“Meh, I’mma have a quiet life and see what the gods decide,” she answered philosophically.

“Suit yourself.” Sam cocked his ear as an invisible bell rang. “I gotta go. I’ll send the dremora clean-up team tomorrow.”

“Sweet, thanks. I mean it. Thanks for everything.”

“You too, sweetheart. Have a good honeymoon and send me the sketches-“

Even a Daedric Prince couldn’t outrun an Unrelenting Force Shout, though it did expedite his entrance into the portal to Oblivion.

…

“Ysraneth, you are seriously _not_ going to tell Lucia and Sofie that’s how the Civil War ended!”

“But that’s how it ended!”

“I know, but aren’t they a little young?”

“They’re fourteen and fifteen respectively-“

“No. And that’s that.”

“Fine, Lydia. Should I take them Thalmor hunting then?”

“Yssie!”

“Sheesh, try to teach a kid the facts of life and you get into trouble!”

“We agreed to raise them reasonably normally.”

“This from the woman who taught Odahviing how to sing drunken songs in Dovahzul.”

“…Big difference between an eons-old dragon and teenagers, Yssie.”

“Not when he asks me what a Colovian milk sandwich is.”

“…Ahem. Sorry. Can I offer you one to make it up?”

“Yes please!”


	7. The Cannib-Jarl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ysraneth becomes Jarl of Falkreath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This universe is a touch bizarre because it’s humour, so becoming Jarl is that easy. This will also be the last Ysraneth story.

“So the Dragonborn, her wife and her best friend hit the town of Falkreath for some mead…”

“…And the Kriisfahlil walks in and becomes dinner,” Odahviing finished with the draconic equivalent of a smirk. It was more of a grimace, but Ysraneth was slowly teaching her oversized lizard buddy humour, cuisine and other things conducive to peaceful coexistence with mortalkind. The punchline he came up with also pretty bad, but she had to give him points for effort.

Lucia and Sofie were growing rapidly now they were eating properly and so the trio had come to Falkreath to see if new dresses could be found for the girls. Lydia sucked at weaving and Ysraneth plus the pureblood Bosmer following the Green Pact really couldn’t work with fibres, so they had to buy the kids clothing because apparently dragonhide and Thalmor leather were inappropriate materials for their adopted offspring. Ysraneth sighed; Lydia was still a bit miffed because she’d turned Numinex’s skull into a chamberpot for Jarl Balgruuf to use as a wedding gift for him and Irileth.

“Can I pat him?” asked a little girl of her mother, pointing at Odahviing.

“Hey, would you like some random person patting you?” Ysraneth asked of the girl. Odahviing was mostly well-behaved, but he still had his faults.

“No!”

“Odahviing’s a person. He doesn’t want to be patted.”

The mother, a harried-looking Breton woman, smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Dragonborn. Mai’s wanted to meet a dragon since she saw one three years ago.”

“Behave,” Ysraneth muttered to Odahviing. “No eating the kid.”

“Of course, Iiz-Raan-Aaz,” the dragon promised. “Not enough meat on her.”

Lydia facepalmed as the mother blanched.

“Sorry about that. Dragons are predators.” Ysraneth smiled at the kid.

“Is it true you eat elves?” Mai asked eagerly.

“Only Thalmor Altmer,” Ysraneth answered as Runil, an ex-Thalmor Altmer turned Priest of Arkay, emerged from Grey Pine Goods.

“Ysraneth, Lydia!” The old mer hurried over and gave them both a hug. “Congratulations on your wedding! I’m a little hurt I wasn’t invited though, my dears.”

“Why don’t we just say it started with an Altmer main course and ended in a big drunken or-err, party,” Ysraneth answered, changing her last word as she recalled an impressionable kid was in earshot. “Given the amount of Bosmer with grudges and Stormcloaks there…”

“Ah, of course.” Runil nodded understandingly.

“Odahviing, Runil is in the same category as Fasendil – not food,” Ysraneth muttered to the dragon as he eyed the priest thoughtfully.

“Geh, too old anyway,” the dragon retorted with a huff.

“Thank Arkay for that,” Runtil countered dryly. “Not to pass judgment, Ysraneth, but was it wise to introduce him to eating Thalmor? I’m not sure – forgive, Sera Dragon, this is no insult to your intelligence but to how we must all look alike to you – he can tell the difference between Thalmor and innocent Altmer.”

“Given that most Thalmor would go sliding down a dragon’s throat rather than lose the black and gold robes, we’re pretty good,” Lydia observed quietly.

“True enough, my dear. For years after I fled them, I felt naked in my priest’s robes…” Runil sighed, clasping his hands together. “I’m glad you’re in town. Steward Nenya wants to speak to you, as does Thane Dengeir.”

Ysraneth echoed the old mer’s sigh. “What has Siddgeir done now?”

“Spent not just his own personal stipend but all of Falkreath’s tithes,” Runil reported grimly. “We have no funds to pay the guards, the mercenaries who hunt down bandits... and the creditors who want Siddgeir’s hide for owing them coin.”

Ysraneth glanced at Lydia. Balgruuf had been dropping some broad hints about her going for Falkreath’s Jarlship and she’d jokingly agreed. But things had been getting steadily worse in the Hold and as Thane, she’d found herself covering for people’s needs because there were always bandits, stupid dragons and other ways to make coin. The small Bosmer community that had sprung up here were even pitching in, relying on the flesh of bandits and other human predators so that the folk with pickier appetites could have the venison and other animal meats. Even Brelyas, the new Listener of the Dark Brotherhood (earning that title after murdering Erikur and apparently hearing the voice of the Night Mother), was arranging for food and supplies.

“I’m a cannibal, not a Cannib-Jarl,” she pointed out. “Dengeir’s two steps off senile and Thadgeir needs a pair.”

“At the moment, I’ll take the Cannib-Jarl over the Jarl who’s bled us dry,” Runil countered dryly. “You’ve fed most of Falkreath Hold out of your own pocket, your Bosmeri friends have the bandits running scared, and you’re the niece-in-law of the Jarl of Whiterun.”

“Look, I’ll speak to Nenya and even Dengeir first,” Ysraneth answered carefully. “I don’t want to reignite tensions after we got the Civil War settled.”

Runil nodded, a wry glint in his golden eyes indicating that priest of Arkay or not, he damned well guessed how a wedding feast had turned into several weddings. For an ex-Thalmor, he was a pretty cool guy.

“Eat him,” Odahviing advised calmly.

It had been awkward explaining to the kids why Mummy Ysraneth sometimes cooked her own meals and wouldn’t share but given Sofie had been orphaned by Thalmor killing her Stormcloak pa and Lucia pretty much thought the sun shone out of her arse, they’d taken it pretty well. The Thalmor Embassy had been shut down last month as the last of the agents slunk home, terrified that Ysraneth would attack and eat them on principle. They were right, but Thalmor were so scarce in Skyrim that she and the dragons were thinking of ranging into Cyrodiil for special occasions.

“He’s Nord and so am I,” Ysraneth pointed out. She had her standards, dammit!

The dragon rolled his eyes but said nothing as she and Lydia made their way into Gray Pine Goods for some new dresses. Predictably there was nothing available, so Ysraneth put in an order for three each for the girls before turning around to head out. She’d stop off at the Dead Man’s Drink, catch Dengeir and-

Siddgeir’s girlish shrieks echoed throughout the village as Odahviing grabbed him and flung the Jarl into the air, cutting off with the snap of ivory teeth as the dragon bit him in two. One more gulp and there was no more Jarl of Falkreath; Lydia and Ysraneth exchanged glances, tensing in case somebody got pissed off and decided to attack the big scaly bastard.

Even though Siddgeir was hated, neither woman was prepared for the outbreak of cheering that was probably heard in Whiterun. Someone found the ornate circlet that Siddgeir had worn and offered it to Ysraneth – much to her surprise, it was the Altmer Steward Nenya.

“He came out and started abusing Odahviing,” the mer woman said cheerfully. “Obviously, the dragon was within his rights to attack him because Siddgeir used fighting words about you and Lydia.”

“And as your huscarl, he’s oathbound to defend your honour,” Runil added shrewdly.

“So, what, I’m the Cannib-Jarl now?” Ysraneth asked with some disbelief. It couldn’t be that easy to become the ruler of the Hold… Could it?

“Cannib-Jarl. I love that,” Mathies said with a grin. Since Ysraneth had delivered Sindig’s hide to the farmer, he’d been her source of vegetables (for the kids). “Anyone have any objections to Ysraneth taking over?”

You could have heard the crickets chirping in Whiterun, the silence was so profound.

Then it was broken by Odahviing vomiting. “Ugh,” the dragon cried, spitting out Siddgeir. “That was so… oily!”

“Can I have a bathtub of mead for my… uh… huscarl?” Ysraneth asked of Narri.

Odahviing was given a lake of the stuff and Ysraneth reminded herself to set up a deal with Honningbrew Meadery. She’d need to make a good many trade deals with Balgruuf so they both got rich…

She took the circlet from Nenya and then tossed it on Siddgeir’s corpse. “From here on in, the Jarl of Falkreath will wear a crown of the creatures they hunt,” she decreed. “We are a Hold of the woods and we should reflect that.”

Then she embraced Lydia, thinking _How the fuck am I going to handle this?_

…

“Needs more violence,” Dean Viarmo said critically as Tasgeir the Wanderer presented his masterpiece, the final tale in the Ysraneth Cycle. “Make Siddgeir more of an outright villain – daedric plate, that sort of thing.”

The younger bard rolled his eyes heavenward but said nothing. It was hard enough to figure out which part of the Poetic Edda the Ysraneth Cycle belonged in because while the battles against Alduin were heroic enough and none could deny the love she and Lydia shared, the Dragonborn being an unrepentant cannibal was almost anathema to all true Nords. Not to mention her crediting Sanguine with ending the Civil War via a giant orgy.

“A hundred years from now, no one will ever believe any of this happened,” the bard sighed. “They’ll make her a Bosmer or a Nord and ignore the history…”

Viarmo smirked. “The Thalmor will remember her. Assuming she leaves enough alive to do so.”

Tasgeir shuddered. He commended her dedication to the ideals of her father’s people, but the Dragonborn violating Cyrodiil’s borders to hunt down Thalmor to feed her draconic liegecreatures was… frightening.

“Remember, Ysraneth is also a bard and a very educated woman. I’m sure she’ll find ways to tell her own story.” Viarmo smiled sagely. “Just polish up your saga and it should be good for the Poetic Edda.”

The Altmer Dean, a middle-aged mer with a dry sense of humour, exited the library and left Tasgeir regarding his work with a despairing glance. To make it plausible would be to remove half the truth and to polish it up would be to make it unbelievable. Whatever was he to do?

One of the new students, a wiry Breton in plain robes, entered the library with an Imperial in patchwork motley. “Tasgeir!” Sam cried out cheerfully. “How’s the saga going?”

Tasgeir sighed. “I’ve been told to polish it up, but I don’t know how.”

Sam and his friend exchanged glances. “Well, there’s a few little details you don’t know about and we do. Want to hear them?”

“Please!”

“Well, I met Yssie and Lydia when they were drinking in Whiterun after a long hard day of killing dragons…”

In later days, bards could never decide if Tasgeir the Wanderer’s Ysraneth Cycle was factual, allegorical, parody or just plain insane. But even the dourest listener chuckled at the tales of the Cannib-Jarl, her beloved warrior consort and their draconic huscarl…

And in Sovngarde, the Dragonborn and her beloved lived happily ever after with plenty of Thalmor Tenderloin and mead to tide them and their family over for eternity. That was when they weren’t partying in Oblivion, of course. Which was most of the time because Sanguine threw a better party than Shor.

What matters is that no matter where you are, good friends, good food and good drink will make you feel at home.


End file.
